Happy Birthday, Fate!
by OverMaster
Summary: The 30th of January 2004, the original Fate/Stay Night Visual Novel, the first ever officially released installement of the franchise (sorry, Prototype), came out in Japan. This is my fan tribute to the whole saga today, 30th of January 2019, celebrating Fate's fifteenth birthday.


_Fate Stay Night_ , _Fate Prototype_ , _Fate Zero_ , _Fate Hollow Ataraxia_ , _Fate EXTRA_ , _Fate Extella_ , _Fate Apocrypha_ , _Fate Strange/Fake_ , _Fate Kaleid Liner Prisma Illya_ , _Fate Requiem, Fate School Life_ and _Fate Grand Order_ all are the creation and intellectual property of Nasu Kinoko and Type-Moon.

All other featured and mentioned franchises belong to their respective copyright owners.

* * *

 **Happy Birthday, Fate!**

* * *

The 30th of January 2004, the original _Fate/Stay Night_ Light Novel, the first ever officially released installement of the franchise (sorry, Prototype), came out in Japan.

This is my fan tribute to the whole saga today, 30th of January 2019, celebrating Fate's fifteenth birthday.

* * *

 **Avalon.**

She stood on the eternal field of flowers, her sword's tip planted on the ground, her blue gaze fixed on the blue distance, the skies that were starkly clear and sunny forever. Basking in the warmth, she stood guard in silence, a proud warrior in rest. The wars and the horrors stood long behind, lost in the mists of times that had lost all meaning so long ago, just like the concept of time itself.

She waited.

Some would have said there was nothing to keep watch for anymore, and hence nothing and nobody to wait for either. Most would have thought she should have gone insane, or that perhaps she already had gone insane, in her own way, for in a meaningless situation, surrendering to the despair of a lack of all purpose and stubbornly clutching to a purpose that clearly was not there anymore were divergent but equals symptoms of madness.

She would have paid them no mind. She waited in silence, smiling even, never faltering on her booted feet. A gorgeous statue in the field of flowers, but there was nothing stony or stiff about her immobility. Even though the only parts of her that moved were her hair and long skirt caressed by the breeze, and the chest that subtly rose and descended constantly under her chestplate with each breathing, there was no rigidity on her rest, and in any unexpected event, she would have been able to move again just as quick and swiftly as ever.

Under the sun, as fragant as the flowers beneath her, a perfect still depiction of the ideal lady of war, the King of Knights kept true to her duty.

The King of Avalon stood in silence, the ideal sentinel for eternity, and yet holding the hope for release in her heart forever. If it never arrived, she would not complain, but she knew it would. It was a certainty she could not express in words. It just existed in her, and that would always be more than enough to keep her there, alone with her thoughts.

Artoria Pendragon. The King of all Bretons. This was her destiny.

* * *

 **Servants who Never Should be Summoned.**

 **Rider.**

 _In the Eyes of a Ranger, the unsuspecting stranger_

 _Had better know the truth of wrong from right._

 _'Cause the rule of law and order starts at the Texas border,_

 _With the Lone Star of the Ranger shining bright._

Saber and Lancer stopped their duel when this strange song began sounding out of nowhere and everywhere, looking in the general direction of a man strolling confidently out of the shadows, followed by a meek young man with short black hair. The other man was tall, well muscled and red haired, past his prime years but still standing strong and vital, with a shade of a few days with no shaving, and a slight smile on his lips. He wore blue jeans over a red shirt and long, open yellow coat, and a cowboy hat on his head.

 _'Cause the Eyes of a Ranger are upon you;_

 _Any wrong you do, he's gonna see._

 _When you're in Fuyuki, look behind you,_

 _Cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be._

"I'm Servant Rider," the man said, and even the Archer, watching from above, felt a sudden chill running up his spine, under the shiny gold armor.

 _In the Heart of a Ranger, he'll never know the danger_

 _From desperate men with nothing left to lose._

 _The Ranger keeps on coming; so there ain't no sense in running,_

 _'Cause he's bound and sure to make you pay your dues._

Since Saber, Lancer and Archer were not insane, they gave up. Since Caster and Berserker **were** insane, they were spin-kicked in the face. Something happened to Assassin, whatever, who cares. The corrupted Grail was dealt with when Rider ripped his shirt off and manhandled it while easily shrugging the black mud off. When Waver went back to Clock Tower, the other Magi were spin-kicked in the face too just on general principle.

 _When a Ranger's on your trail, he won't know how to fail_

 _And you can't buy him off at any price._

 _So if you decide to ramble, and with your life you'd gamble,_

 _Know where you are before you roll the dice._

* * *

 **That Girl.**

With that done, Merlin flipped around on his feet, waved his wand, and turned Wart back into a human. Wart couldn't help laughing in shaking relief, causing the girl squirrel to gasp loudly.

" There, now you see?" Wart told the now trembling pitiful little creature stirring at her feet. "I'm not a squirrel. I'm a boy!"

Merlin chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes back.

Despite everything, the girl squirrel managed, not only to restrain her instincts enough as to not fleeing immediately, but actually chirping to her as if asking a frantic question.

"I tried to tell you, I'm, I'm a boy," Wart struggled to get her point across. "A human boy!"

Now Merlin downright chortled into a fist, while the girl squirrel climbed up to a knot on her tree and sniffed.

Wart sighed with great sorrow. "Oh! If you could only understand!"

The squirrel ran up to the hole in the tree and began crying bitterly in long, extremely high pitched wails out as Arthur remorsefully walked away.

"Ah, and now you know, lad, that love business is a powerful thing," Merlin sagely told her, patting her comfortingly on a shoulder, and letting go of his former amusement.

She looked back over her shoulder and saw the squirrel, now on a branch, still sobbing, watching them walk away in turn. Now that Artoria thought about it, so long after the fact, her fur had been as reddish as Shirou's hair. A sadly funny coincidence to dwell onto, perhaps.

"Greater than gravity?" she asked, in a tone of bitterness she didn't know she had.

"Well, yes, boy," Merlin conceded. "In its way, I'd, uh... Yes, I'd say it's the greatest force on Earth."

Even now, she felt ocassionally compeled to wondering, what had become of that poor, smallest of all beasts in the forest, a forest most likely long burned and paved over? One of so many, nameless, undistiguishable from each other, and yet each gifted with their own little heart. It might have seemed a trivial, ridiculous concern, a microscopic affair to worry about such a trifle after living through so many harrowy ordeals and witnessing so many epics to change the world forever, time after time.

But even so, hadn't she felt love, as much as she and Shirou and Rin and Irisviel and anybody else ever had?

* * *

 **The Real Reason Why Archer Gave His Arm to Shirou.**

"Wait," Rider paused as he placed the blade down against his shoulder. "What are you going to-"

For all answer, Archer forcefully and swiftly brought the weapon down.

* * *

Sakura trembled and shook into Shirou's embrace as he pounded hard and relentlessly on her. "Oh, Sempai! Sempaaaaiiiiiii!"

Firmly held behind Sakura's naked back, and without Shirou himself actually noticing, Archer's arm raised a thumb up to itself.

* * *

 **What Happened to Us?**

"We've got to talk," Tamamo told Nero.

"What is it?"

"It's about you and me. Our relationship isn't what it used to be! Our beautiful enmity has cooled down, so much, mikooooon! Today, just looking at Artoria Alter and Jeanne Alter... They still have the same chemistry we used to have! What happened to us, Shameless Emperor? What happened to our beautiful mutual distaste?! You never insult me anymore!"

Nero huffed haughtily. "You've got a lot of nerve saying that after taking that horned snake as your love rival, jackal! Did you think I wouldn't notice? This Emperor plays no second actor to anyone!"

"You've got that wrong! Kiyohime is only a good old friend to exchange catty comments and the ocassional murder attempt with! You still are my rival, Whore of Babylon! My only true rival! Why don't you feel the same anymore? I've noticed! You prefer spending more time with Liz nowadays!"

"Umu! We only bond over singing, that is all!"

"That is a lie!" Tamamo wailed. "Because that thing you do can't be called singing...!"

Then they silently stared at each other.

"Very well," Nero finally said. "There is only one thing we can do about this."

* * *

Arjuna stared angrily at them. "I believe you are grievously mistaken. That is **not** the nature of our relationship..."

"Oh, come on!" Tamamo pouted. "Surely you could offer us some useful advice...!"

"I'm reaching for my bow now," Arjuna dryly warned, doing so.

* * *

 **My Best Enemy.**

Out of all the friends and foes alike Artoria had battled through her long, blood soaked career as a warrior and ruler, none had been braver than the Black Knight. She always would respect the likes of Diarmuid, Shirou, Iskandar the Great, Negi Springfield, Mordred, Darkwing Duck, Rin, and even Gilgamesh, but never had she witnessed courage and willpower such as that exhibited by that admittedly witless soldier that glorious day when…

"Now stand aside, worthy adversary!" Artoria warned after cutting her adversary's arm off.

Far from being intimidated, the Black Knight growled, undaunted. "'Tis but a scratch!"

"A scratch? Your arm's off!" she protested.

"No, it isn't!" he claimed.

Angrily, she pointed down at the arm on the bridge's floor and demanded, "What's that, then?"

Her enemy looked at it for a moment and gruffly said after a reluctant pause: "I've had worse!"

"You liar!" Artoria said.

"Come on, you pansy!" he challenged her again.

With a grunt of fury, Artoria charged ahead once again, swinging in full force and slicing off the Knight's other arm. "Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no arms left!" she pointed out then.

"Just a flesh wound!" the Black Knight replied, blood flowing out of his stumps in all directions.

With a rough sigh of exasperation, Artoria struck yet again, this time cutting the Knight's left leg and leaving him awkwardly tittering on one booted foot, spraying blood everywhere.

This seemed to really anger the Black Knight now. "Right! I'll do you for that!"

" ** _You'll do what?!_** " a fully disbelieving Artoria cried. "What are you going to do, bleed on me!?"

"I'm invincible!"

"You're a loony," Artoria sneered, shaking her head before waving her sword one last time, now chopping the final limb left, so the Black Knight's armored torso dropped on the floor with a loud clang. Exhaling in faint dismay, she walked past him towards her destination, even though the dismembered Knight kept on shouting furiously at her.

"Ooh, ooh, I see, running away, eh? YOU YELLOW BASTARD! Come back here and take what's coming to you! I'll bite your legs off!"

Later, much later, during her third life of sorts, Artoria would learn the alleged descendant of that brave man had also taken the moniker of 'the Black Knight' and joined the team of costumed adventurers and do-gooders self-named 'The Avengers'.

Good for him, she guessed.

* * *

 **The Last Master.**

The Greater Grail had been dismantled, and peace had returned to the city at last.

And so, a man with long black hair could finally go up that hill overlooking Fuyuki, crouch down on the grass, and start setting up the candles for the fallen.

He set a candle for the man whose legacy he had inherited, for despite all his many flaws, now he could understand him better.

He set a candle for the doomed puppet of an ancient evil, who died without ever having his love returned.

He set a candle for the demented dog who would flood the streets with the blood of the innocent, for even the worst have to be remembered, lest we fail to learn from their misdeeds.

He set a candle for the proud and rich owner of the land who ended up losing everything.

He set a candle for the broken man of the grand dreams who had brought ruin upon his own family for their sake.

He set a candle for the foolish child twisted by his family's evil.

He set a candle for the obscure man who had failed to achieve anything at all, because of his own hubris and shortsightedness.

He set a candle for the jaded man of the dead eyes who gave everything for his love.

He set a candle for the tiny woman who never could mature because of others' choices.

He set a candle for the one who was backstabbed by that she trusted the most.

He set a candle for the perverse thing that had once been a human being.

He set a candle for the man who never could find solace in anything but that he had been taught to hate.

He set a candle for the young man who burned his life off for an ideal.

He set a candle for the loving girl who kept on waiting to the end for someone who never came back.

He set a candle for the brave young woman who fought along him to bring the nightmare to a definite end, and paid the price for it.

He sat down on the ground and paid his tributes in the necessary silence.

Finally, a younger man with much lighter hair came up the hill, smiling. "Aren't you done yet, Professor?"

He sighed, getting up as the wind blew the candles off. "Yes, I am now. Let's head back, boy. We have finished here."

Waver Velvet and Flat Escardos began the long way home.

* * *

 **Shakespeare Writes Lemon Fanfiction.**

"You are making them do it, aren't you," accused the voice from his doorstep.

"I have no idea what are you talking about, dear Miss," the playwright said, taking a moment to touch the tip of his tongue with his quill, and then starting to write again. "But, if you would like to enlighten this poor, oft befuddled soul...?"

Atalanta growled, baring her teeth, from where she stood in her long bedrobe, pressing a plush bear against an ear and a pillow against the other. "They've never been that noisy! No, scratch that, they've never been doing THAT before, period!"

Caster hummed, vaguely interested. "And you would know this, because...?"

Atalanta indignantly pointed at her nose. "Other than because it's always been obvious he's never been interested on those things before, they've never smelled of what I'm smelling now! I'm not a harlot, true, but that doesn't mean I haven't ever smelt the arousal of others! Every damned would be husband who came to me stunk of it!"

"Is it that much of an issue if they do whatever they are doing behind closed doors?" Caster asked languidly, turning a page and starting on the next.

"My smell isn't the only sense of mine that is superior to yours!" the Archer protested, pulling up on her ears.

"My sympathies," Caster said quite falsely, "but there's nothing I can do about it."

"You are causing it!" Atalanta said. "You're now writing licencious stories, aren't you...!"

"Oh, I am," Caster admitted shamelessly, "but you should know it's not like I could influence them anyway. Most especially not him. There are, sadly, too many limitations to my Noble Phantasm. Truly, not up to the heights of my genius, not that I am complaining..."

"And why should I believe you when you say this?" the Archer sneered.

Caster turned his chair around, then offered the folios he had been working on, spread for her to read. "I submit my works to the critique of my peers. Readily, for I have no shame on the fruits of my ingenuity!"

Atalanta blushed bright crimson, as if a snake had just bitten her. "V-Very well! I believe you! But, but keep that dirty thing away from me...!"

Shakespeare made a truly wounded face as she spun back on her heels and stomped away. "Oh dear. Censorship is one thing, but downright rejection is even worse. Are you sure you don't wish to give it a read, Miss? It could help you release your tensions, so you aren't so bothered..."

"I, I'm not bothered!" Archer cried out, storming down the halls of the Red Faction's fortress and getting as far from the Caster as she could... only to run into a hard, broad chest upon turning a corner.

Achilles, fresh off the bath and with a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders, blinked. "Oh, sorry about that! I wasn't paying attention, there seems to be something in the air tonight..."

Atalanta rubbed herself on the face, sighing. "Don't worry, I guess I was distracted too. Maybe I'm just worried about tomorrow's battle..."

Achilles smiled. "Are you? Don't you worry, I'll be there for you the whole time..."

She frowned at him. "As if that made any difference!"

"You know I will, regardless," he gently offered.

Atalanta's face moved in interesting ways then, as if struggling with some very deep internal conflict, and she finally said, "You know what, let's get out. I challenge you. To a race!"

Back in the Caster's studio, he smirked roguishly, finally lifting his gaze off the pages to look at his invisible audience.

"How do I do it?" he wondered aloud. "Oh, I didn't lie! This is not a tale of the Master and Assassin, I had nothing to do with that one. And my Noble Phantasm has, indeed, many limits! However, as I said, my genius does not. And part of the genius consists of never revealing how it works."

Quite satisfied with himself, William Shakespeare returned to working industriously.

 _ **Curtain.**_

* * *

 **Inspiration.**

Goetia stood triumphant over the beaten, humbled Servants felled all around him, laughing maniacally. "Is this the best mankind has to offer in their defense? Pathetic! Don't you see how broken and hopeless your futile attempts are?! Stay down already, fools! There is nothing you can do to prevent your end..."

At last, indeed, the human kind's greatest were subdued in body and spirit by this unbeatable foe.

"Yes... It's all been in vain, after all..."

"We were so naive, all of us...!"

"I can't move anymore... I don't have the strenght..."

"It's all lost, all lost!"

"Uuuuuu..."

The only one still standing, Merlin, bit on his lower lip and cursed to himself. "Damnation! Well, it'll be necessary resorting to this, it seems..."

He began gesturing with both hands, wildly, invoking a large rip on the fabric of time and space over the battlefield. "I summon forth, the most compelling vision in creation! Behold, Master of Chaldea! Behold, Heroic Spirits! Be reminded of what you fight for!"

"... what...?" Goetia looked up, seeing a simple sequence of a young redhaired boy trying time and time again to jump over a high bar, never succeeding. "Have you lost your mind, Merlin? What is this pitiful display meant to-"

He was interrupted by a myriad of impressed, loud gasps and sighs of admiration all around him. The Servants were staring up as well, fixedly, as the boy kept on getting back up and trying to make the leap, time after time.

"Such perseverance!"

"What a drive!"

"I feel ashamed of myself now..."

"This is good civilization."

"If he's not going to give up, neither will I!"

"Uuuuuuu..."

Only Emiya remained unmoved, grouching to himself on the dirt. "Stupid jump and stupid bar..."

"Oh, for the love of-" Goetia groaned, annoyed, right before over a hundred of enraged Servants descended upon him.

* * *

"And that," Merlin finished his tale with a smile, sitting at the table across Shirou, "is why we had to come and see you as soon as possible!"

Shirou frowned, ignored the uneasiness of Sakura and Rin sitting behind him, and looked all over the starstruck, awed and swooning huge crowd of colorful figures and a single perfectly normal young mage sitting along Merlin at the other side of the table.

Then, and only then, Shirou glared a hill of swords at the archmage. "I can see now why Saber would feel that way about you...!"

"I'm right here, Shirou!" a hand was raised from somewhere in the crowd overstuffing and literally pouring by the sides out of his dojo.

Taiga blinked, then pointed at Jaguarman. "Okay, but how does any of that explain why she looks just like me?"

* * *

 **Achievement.**

Sir Ector pushed the sword back in the stone as rough and deeply as he could, and turned back to face his ward. "Alright, boy, let's have the miracle," he urged.

Trembling slightly, Wart nodded and went up to the sword, ready to try her best to pull it out of the stone again, even if she thought herself it had been just a fluke and she wouldn't do it again. Oh, what had he gotten himself into this time…?

Kay, however, grabbed Wart's arm and shoved her aside. "Now, wait a minute!" he protested. "Anyone can pull it once it's been pulled!"

"And if someone can perfectly embody the concept of 'anybody'…" Sir Pelinore snarked, folding his arms in contempt.

Huffing at the perceived insult, Kay threw a hostile glare at Sir Pelinore, then stood before the stone, took hold of the sword's handle, and with a mighty yank, tried to pull the balde out, clearly straining himself, veins bulging in his thick arms. However, Caliburn did not move in the slightest.

"Go to it, Kay," Ector excitedly said. "Give it all you got. Put your back into it!"

After a few more moments of useless efforts, Ector himself went to Kay's side, put his hands on his son's, and began helping him pulling on the handle, yet making no difference. The sword stubbornly kept itself buried in the slab, despite all of their vigorous yanking and grunting.

Seeing it apparently was a free-for-all now, three other knights came in and rushed them over, trying to pull out the sword all at once as well.

"Now hold on. That's not fair!" claimed Sir Black Bart, once again providing Wart with reasons to never join the common prejudice against knights in dark armor.

"I say we let the boy try it," Sir Pelinore reasonably said.

"That's what I say. Give the boy a chance!" Black Bart agreed.

"Go ahead, son," Pelinore gave Wart's shoulders a gente push ahead while the other grown men, panting and wheezing, stepped aside, conceding defeat and staring at him, expectant and judgmental.

Still hesitating, Wart walked back up to the sword. And the miracle light from above appeared over the stone just when she, with a minimal effort and a twist of her wrist, once more pulled the sword from the stone successfully.

"It's a miracle ordained by Heaven. This boy is our King!" Sir Pelinore breathed out.

"Well, by Jove!" an impressed Sir Ector said.

"What's the lad's name?" asked Black Bart.

"Eh, Wart... Oh, I mean Arthur," Sir Ector blabbed. "Although, in all honesty—"

"Hail, King Arthur!" Black Bart cheered, pumping a fist up, and completely uncaring about the rest of the explanation.

"Hail, King Arthur!" the assembled crowd chanted. "Long live the king!"

"I can't believe it!" Archimedes chuckled from his flagpole perch, ruffling his feathers. "Just wait until Merlin learns about this, he'll be kicking himself!"

Sir Ector humbly bowed to Artoria, his forehead almost touching the ground. "Oh, forgive me, son. Forgive me!" he begged.

"Oh, please don't, sir!" Artoria gasped. "There's no need for-!"

"Kay!" Sir Ector commanded to his birth son. "Bow to your king!"

Kay grumbled and began shaking his head, still far from impressed or convinced, but then he paused, looked at Wart's pale, wide eyed face with critical eyes, and finally bowed out of his own volition, saying nothing.

And in that snowy day, in a date later societies would have labeled a December the Twenty-Fourth, Artoria 'Arthur' Pendragon, bastard daughter of Uter, was crowned King of all Bretons. A soft, lingering hail of snow had begun fluttering all across the shit-stained city, as if to gently wash its sins away.

At least for the time being.

* * *

 **Failure.**

On a hill of swords and dead bodies, under a blood red sky and a burning setting sun, the darkness quickly approaching, they clashed brutally, again and again, steel clanging repeatedly in vicious collisions, armored bodies strained far beyond average human endurance. Helmets shattered long ago, identical gore splattered faces staring at each other through swollen eyes, the father and the son were the last two combatants standing on the cursed battlefield.

"Why won't you surrender!" Mordred screamed, struggling to keep the tears at bay. "You've lost everything, while no matter what, I'll keep my hatred! Let go of your pride, Father! The kingdom is lost, you… I… It doesn't matter anyone, who keeps it…" she wheezed, coughing up crimson splurts while madly stabbing ahead, each motion more erratic and jerky than the last. "We have brought ruin upon it… everything is gone…"

Arthur did not reply with words but kept on pressing her attack, even though she was dying herself. Her face, unlike Mordred's, seemed devoid of any emotion, obscured both by the bangs of her unkempt gold hair and the blood caked on her features. As ever, her silence only further enraged Mordred, who fought on, drawing strenght from weakness, intent on killing her at last.

"Why do you hate me so much, Father?!" Mordred howled, mad with sorrow and, perhaps, fear. "Why did you always hate me, even before I did anything wrong?! I was not my mother! I shouldn't have paid the price for her sins, Father!"

"You are wrong," Arthur hissed, chillingly quiet in tone but harshly cruel in delivery, as her spear went into Mordred's body armor, successfully cracking through it. She pushed her back, literally lifting her off her feet as Morded puked blood on her. "Not once did I despise you. There was only one reason I would not give you the throne. You didn't have the capacity of a King!"

Mordred clenched her teeth in the pain of agony, feeling as the blessed tip of Rhongomyniad pierced into her flank, perforating between two ribs and then curving upside, causing even more untold pain. If anything, that only further fueled her rage, as she made her final move by stabbing her damned blade into Arthur's chest. **_"And you did?!"_** she demanded, then pulled herself back, dropping on her stomach, gasping insanely for air.

"I don't know," Arthur said just as quietly, holding a hand to her wound for a moment, and then staggering to turn around, giving her back to Mordred. Her shoulders shagged, and she stared into nothingness, perhaps crying in silence over everything that should have been done but was not.

Mordred sobbed pitifully, unsatisfied at the answer, and tried to reach up with a gauntlet for the person she had placed the whole of her faith on, attempting for one final touch, for at least one warm contact with her once beloved father. But Arthur just stood there, still, out of her reach, and Mordred simply collapsed with a last whimper, closing her eyes and giving up at last.

Arthur dropped on her knees, barely holding onto her massive spear, and trembled in the fiercest cold she had ever felt, until she felt, through the increasing blindness taking over her, a lone figure slowly approaching. One of her knights, perhaps the last of them, in still functional armor, staggering but clearly not in any immediate risk of death. And so she felt good for him, and allowed herself one final smile.

"Bedevere," she said fondly, as he knelt before her, to gently cradle her body against his. She heard his heartfelt apology, and she, too, surrendered to that haze of the unknown dream.

* * *

 **My Boy.**

He left with little warning, one sunny day, with a sad little smile, a hug, and a promise of returning soon.

He'd write often at first, from several points of the world, allegedly working as a contractor, and over time he'd write less and less.

Every once in a while, Rin would come by on some business or another, and I would ask her about him. She'd always say, "Oh, he's okay, I saw him just last month!" and that would put me at ease.

I only saw him once afterwards, when he dropped by without calling first, and he was huge now, tanned and white haired, and I really couldn't recognize him at all at first. He hugged me, told me fondly "You haven't changed at all, Fuji-nee!" and we spent all day laughing, drinking and reminiscing before he left again. Only when he was gone, I realized how sad he actually had looked the whole time.

The pattern repeated itself after that, in that he'd write a fair lot at first, and then not so much, and finally he didn't write at all.

I once heard he had been executed. Another time, I was told he'd died in a warzone. I heard so many stories, and Rin never confirmed any of them.

We grew old and grey and had families of our own, and that soothed the pain of the loss, somewhat. But I never could forget my little brother, my poor lost Shirou.

My boy.

* * *

 **Avalon, Forever.**

"Shirou!" Saber cried joyfully as she ran through the flowery prairies to his encounter.

"Arthur!" Shirou responded with equal delight, going to meet her in embrace. Behind him, the others, so many of them, the heroes of legend and myth, Masters and Servants alike, those who had earned an everlasting presence through their larger than life miseries and glories, their comrades, hung close, yet holding a respectful distance, for the time at being at least, giving them enough room as to meet in a flawless hug that seemed to send invisible ripples of pure, warm, untold power all across the Timeless Fields of Avalon.

For a moment that lasted another eternity, they held each other under the perfect sun, and everything was good.

* * *

 ** _Happy Anniversary to All._**


End file.
